


Alone and Together

by TwoDrunkenCelestials



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet, Lonely!Jon, Lonliness, M/M, Marriage, Martin's book of poems, Memory Loss, The Lonely - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoDrunkenCelestials/pseuds/TwoDrunkenCelestials
Summary: It's a book of poetry, by one Martin K. Blackwood. He flips through them, mostly poems on marriage and devotion, despite loneliness. About sacrifice and love and blessed quiet. It makes his chest ache and when he tries to understand why, no answer comes.





	Alone and Together

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to fataldrum for beta-ing this! 💜

Jon misses  _ people. _

It's true that he's never been good with them, it doesn't mean he doesn't miss their general company, the miasma of humanity and everything it encompasses. The sudden lack of that eats at him, and he hates it. It— _ it hurts _ , this place, this fog of nothing that's slowly choking and washing away everything that is Jonathan Sims.

(He can't really say how much is  _ him _ and how much is the Archivist or the Beholding or—or whatever it is that filled those empty places inside him even before his coma. He has a heart still, he knows that, one that beats for Martin Blackwood, even if he can't bring himself to admit it out loud.)

That's why he's here. He's here to suffocate the Beholding out of him, and drown himself instead in seawater and fog and  _ Alone. _

Honestly, Jon isn't even sure it's possible anymore, not after his choice in that hospital bed, after stealing so many statements in hunger. That might be why this place is stripping him of his voice first, taking away the source of the Archivist's power, leaving what remains scrambling to scream and beg and plead in silence. 

He's lucky he's found a bed in this other London, escorted away from the Magnus Institute ( _ home, prison, anchor) _ by two Lonely avatars seeking to drown him in the Forsaken. Away from  _ safety, _ they'd abandoned him with nary a word of goodbye. This is for Martin— _ for a marriage _ —he tells himself, curled up, icy trails on his cheeks and hands so stiff and numb it feels like pulling teeth trying to use them. Pulling teeth would probably be easier, if he's honest.

This bed is cold, but soft, so Jon lets himself sleep. He's not sure if it will be into oblivion, or more of this hell, but surely a small reprieve is allowed? Surely an empty bed isn't too much kindness for the cruel stabbing pain it brings, that whispers  _ alonealone _ ** _alone._ **

The darkness behind Jon's eyes is welcome, soft and gentle compared to the faded light that never goes away, no matter the hour. Perhaps, he has to admit, the only upside is that here, he can't hurt people. He can't follow their nightmares and only watch it as they unfold like a worn book opened too many times, spine cracked and bent, and pages yellowed with age.

***

He wakes—however long later, he can't exactly tell and doesn't dare guess—in a different bed. This one is king-sized, in a penthouse suite. There’s a book—the first he's really seen in a while—beside him. Cautiously, though he cannot exactly say why, since it feels like something is—missing,  _ gone— _ he reaches for the book. 

It's a book of poetry, by one Martin K. Blackwood. He flips through them, mostly poems on marriage and devotion, despite loneliness. About sacrifice and love and blessed quiet. It makes his chest ache and when he tries to understand why, no answer comes. He frowns, fingers hovering over the author's name. There is a strange warmth in his chest, thinking about the person, but...that's it. No details.

He brushes the feeling off, but holds onto the book, fingers clutched tight around the near perfect spine. This is his, he decides, and kisses the front decorated with a single wilting flower. 

The bed is soft, but he climbs out anyway, follows a trail of dead flower petals out of the bedroom and through several rooms and hallways. The petals don't seem to end, they simply multiply, the path getting wider and wider, the crushing of them muted. 

It's almost a relief when he stumbles across a kitchen, a table by a large window set with two plates and two glasses of water. That—that means someone else is here right? Someone to fill this strange ache that's settled since he woke up and followed the trail.

"Hello?" He tries to say, but it doesn't come out, caught in his throat and refusing to budge. When he tries again, it  _ hurts, _ and it almost feels like his breath is made of those dry flowers haunting him.

He's almost tempted to put the book down, so he can massage his throat, or look around for whoever set the table. He has a feeling though, that if he does, he won't find it again. Despite the pain the poems bring, they're beautiful. They remind him of someone, though there's a fog that's keeping the face tucked away and the name off his tongue. Perhaps it doesn't even matter, not in this place.

So, he sits and waits. 

He can be patient, calm, cling to the book like it's a life line, clutch the teacup his other— _ wait. _ When had the teacup appeared? The liquid inside is cool, but still drinkable as anything here. 

It  _ probably _ doesn't matter anyway.

He finishes the cup and sets it down. The quiet has revealed nothing in his patience, and he opens the book to read again, pass time as one best does.

On the inside cover is an inscription in beautiful lettering,  _ for my beloved fiancé, Jonathan Sims. _

Whoever this man is, he thinks, he must be lucky to be given this book. Why it's here with him, he still doesn't know, but it's not like there's anyway to ask questions.  _ It doesn't matter. _

***

Days, or what he assumes are days, pass. He wakes and sleeps, drinks, but never eats, and never lets go of that book. He keeps it near his heart, and he swears it's almost warm sometimes, almost glows in the subtle gloom of gray light. 

He wishes he could meet his poet. Marry him, even. He writes so prettily of what it means to be married, and alone together. It sounds better than being here, sitting in silence and cold cups of tea and a too big bed.

***

This morning is different, he finds when he wakes. There's a ring on his finger, weighty and old and beautiful. It's silver, engraved with a sigil, and encircled with small gemstones of blues and grays and whites. It's  _ striking.  _ The room is... _ brighter _ too, less washed out. The silence isn't deafening; instead, the quiet noises of porcelain and a kettle whistling its tune. 

He wants to cry, the cold in his chest pressing down on him less, but no tears come. His eyes are dry, and he can't shake the feeling they always will be now. They don't matter, not really.

He sits there, frozen, listening and clutching the book, when a man enters the room. Tall, blond, handsome, but strangely faded too, just like he feels, deep inside his chest. It echoes between them, _resonates,_ and both he and the man smile. 

"Jon," the man says, the smile empty but pleased, "I'm glad to see you're up. Peter was right, you're finally ready."

"For what?" he asks, words finally unstuck, then, "Am  _ I  _ Jon?"

"For our  _ wedding _ , love. And yes, you are my Jon, and I, your Martin." 

He sounds happy, or as happy as someone that empty can, he—Jon—thinks. He glances down at the book, his  _ anchor, _ and his eyes widen. 

"Like, like  _ this _ Martin K. Blackwood?" 

He feels silly the instant he asks it, but when he gets that same smile, but a little more pleased this time, Jon relaxes. 

"Yes. That was my gift for you. Did you like it?"

"I did," Jon murmurs, suddenly shy. "It—it made me want to marry you. To understand being alone and together, to _be_ alone and together with you."

"And so we will," Martin says, sweet like ice cream upon his tongue, and places a cold kiss that feels like coming home on Jon's temple.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed the bittersweet JonMartin! I already have a sequel I want to write to this that's slightly happier, but we'll see when it happens. 💜


End file.
